


The Secret Lovers of Abb Neagh

by dionysianDaydream (500ADNunu)



Category: Mabinogi (Video Game)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-22 06:31:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20869745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/500ADNunu/pseuds/dionysianDaydream
Summary: Yvona's ongoing search for the legendary harp Uaithne has lead to the blossoming of an unlikely romance.





	The Secret Lovers of Abb Neagh

Yvona could tell something was wrong as she watched the man walk down the hill toward the Abb Neigh Bard Camp, exposing a barely contained grimace with each step.

_He's limping, _she thought bitterly. _He's been in a fight, and probably ran out of bandages again._

As the sun was setting upon the land of music once again, the man stopped just shy of the flickering campfire and dancing silhouettes of the company of bards and bohemians alike that had flocked to its comforting glow, for one reason or another. He smiled like a child that had just been up to mischief facing his mother for the first time. The typically aloof Yvona had distanced herself from the night's festivities even more than usual, as she had waited, worried, at the edge of the camp.

She pulled him into some nearby brush, concealed from prying eyes.

“You kept me waiting,” Yvona scolded him, before lunging at him in a frenzy of _ravenous_ kisses.

It was a pubescent, wet, sloppy exchange, but the two lonesome souls both _craved_ it with every fiber of their beings. She wrapped her arms around his neck as he clutched unto her around her waist, holding her close. Even as the constant rocking and writing of her thin frame, against his bruised and cut up body, caused his fresh wounds to ache and sear with pain.

Yvona had been waiting for this moment, this _mood_, at their secret spot in a grove further along the banks of Abb Neigh for _hours_ before returning, crestfallen, to the camp.

The man could only state his defense in mumbles, between what scant breaths she would permit him:

“Sorry...I took so long...but I can't...say it was...mu fault..._ouch_!”

Yvona had pulled away from him suddenly, crossing her arms indignantly. “You're hurting. What's more, you look like you've just got back from being a dragon's chewtoy.”

The man was panting with exhilaration, in contrast to her well-maintained stillness; if she was to completely _let go_, it would be on her own terms.

Yvona sighed, covering her eyes and shaking her head. “You were out playing hero again, weren't you?”

Upon closer examination, she could detect the blotches of dried blood on his shirt.

“I take it you haven't been to a Healer's House.”

Just as Yvonna was really beginning to grow annoyed, the man caressed the back of her raven-haired head in his hand, prompting her to gaze up into his brilliant blue eyes.

“There wasn't enough time. I'd already kept you waiting long enough, I thought.”

Yvona bristled at such an unexpectedly sweet response. Despite herself, she could feel the blood rush to her face and her ears perk up, and desperately hoped that he hadn't noticed.

“Fair enough,” she said. “I guess it falls upon _me_ to fix you up, then, so be thankful...”

“Although, sometimes, I wonder if I'd be better off just tossing you into the lake, and letting the Neid decide if you're worth the indigestion.”

…

The interior of Yvona's tent was barely spacious enough for the two of them to fit, and both had to kneel and walk around on their knees inside, due to its low height. Yvona had to take off her hat, or else she wouldn't have even been able to get through the entrance. A heavy aroma of incense that the man, from his time as a traveling salesman, immediately recognized as being an import from Fillia that one could not get from anywhere else. Various musical instruments of all different types were strewn and cluttered about the tent, as if she'd gone through and dismissed them all, before ultimately ending up with the Ice Flute that she now always carried with her.

It made for an undeniably intimate setting, further accentuated by the thin strips of light from the half moon streaming in from outside.

“I could get you a bigger tent next time I'm in Dunby,” the man said. “Isn't it a bit...tight, in here?”

Yvona, who was behind him gathering her First Aid things from one corner of the tent, shook her head. “There's no need. You're just about the only other person .”

“And it's so far away from the camp. Doesn't it ever feel, I dunno, _lonely_?”

“Shut up, and take your shirt off already,” she said, turning to him with bandages, swabs, and a half-empty bottle of Manus Brand Disinfectant in hand.

“Well, if you really _insist..._”

“Go ahead and _laugh it up_, while you can. This stuff _stings_.”

The man set aside his travel bag. As he proceeded to pull off his tunic, Yvona was surprised by what she saw.

Old scars, colored in varying lighter and darker shades of his skin tone, crisscrossed his back. As she slowly encircled him, taking in the full extent of his unexpectedly brawny physique with awe, she glimpsed even more scars, covered over by a fresh _new_ set of deep, hastily patched slash marks, clearly inflicted by a blade.

“It's amazing that you're even still able to stand with injuries like these.”

He shrugged, smirking. “I've suffered worse.”

“Don't act all tough. Acting like you're tougher than you really are will just get you killed.”

With a scoff, Yvona quickly sprayed some disinfectant onto one of the man's fresh wounds, making him wince.

“Told you,” she said.

She set about applying the disinfectant with swabs and little concern for the man's comfort, as she watched his stern expression throughout the ensuing dead silence, wherein only the sound of crickets could be heard outside. He appeared to be deep in thought, with a newfound look of what she saw as a fierce _determination_ in his eyes. It was a look she'd only glimpsed a few times before, hinting at a whole other side of the man. A side she desperately wanted to see _more_ of, for all the feelings it would cause to well up within her like hearth fire.

As she gently moved a swab, swollen with disinfectant, to a wound under his right pectoral, she was in awe of the roughness of his hide, well-worn through countless battles, his deep sun tan and chiseled face. Near to a man of such impeccable physique, she couldn't help but feel small with her nimble, Elvish frame.

“So how serious is it looking?” The man asked suddenly, breaking Yvona out of her daze.

“You'll definitely need stitches from someone more qualified than I,” she mused, stopping long after the wounds had been sufficiently cleaned. “I Just hope that whatever you were up to was worth all this trouble.”

“I'd say that's up to _you_ to decide,” he said, smirking as he pointed to his previously discarded bag. A _Carasek_ _Bag_ that had seen better days.

With a gasp, Yvona scrambled over to the bag. It was bloodstained, with the fabric cut and torn a bit in places but otherwise intact, containing one large, solid object.

“No,” she uttered in disbelief. “It can't possibly be.”

From out of the unassuming bag she drew a harp, of purest ivory and flawless glossy finish.

“My boys did some digging, and came across this secret _order_ among the Fomor, that had claimed possession of it all along. As with most secret orders, cults and the like, they weren't exactly the most upstanding of fellows. So, I took it upon myself to perform a bit of what we'll just call community service, _and_ managed to snag the harp while I was at it.”

“I don't believe it. Is this really..._Uaithne_?” The legendary harp, said to have the power to control men's emotions with its magical sounds.

The man's eyes narrowed, and lips melting into his usual easygoing smile.

“Not the real thing. It's a replica that the Fomors crafted.”

“Oh,” she said, as she was still rubbing tears from her eyes with one hand. She wondered if the man had expected her to be disappointed by the reveal, but still the tears kept flowing. “Even so, I've been searching for it since I was a little girl, and now I'm...practically _holding_ it.”

The man nodded. “I take it as a sign that we're getting closer, so just you wait.”

She glanced up at him, then down at his bare chest, and the unsightly, bloody wounds there. Wounds that he'd suffered on _her_ behalf.

“You risked your _life_ to get this for me,” she said, feeling guilt.

Yvona looked over the harp again. It bore a faint glow, at the very least hinting at some magical affinity it possessed, with unintelligible runes carved along it. Likely _Fomorian_ text. Even for a mere replica, and the handiwork of such a crude race at that, it was beautiful.

_I don't deserve it,_ she thought. _Not the harp, nor this level of devotion._

Her mind wandered back to memories of a darker time in her life. Of her childhood back in Iria, and the abuses she'd faced from the other elves.

_Child of omen. Dark one. Raven._

_Keep away. _

_Don't let any of your children play with her._

_Don't talk to her, ever._

_Don't even look at her, lest the curse may touch you._

Even when Yvona withdrew from everyone else; never talking out of line, never doing anything objectionable, the whispering still continued. Never, did they cease.

To this very day, a scar remains on her face from where she'd once been struck.

Because she was cursed from birth, with dark hair.

Because she was born unworthy of love.

The man embraced from behind, sheltering her within his great, powerful arms, as the tears started to pour freely down her face, and she broke out into a loud sob.

He spoke to her in a gentle whisper:

“Even before we met, I'd seen you before. And sometimes I'd hear your music, when I'd be passing by the lake. Unlike the others, you only ever played sad songs. But, you'd always take care to remove yourself from the others, so as to never drag them down. Always sparing them all the sadness and misery you've endured, for so long.”

“That's right,” she sniffed. “So you should get away from me, too. Before I drag _you_ down.”

“No, I want you to take me there. I want you to drag me down, to just about as low as you've ever been. You've seen my scars, so you know I can take it.”

He began to kiss her along the smooth of her neck, unbuttoning her top as he did.

“But _why_? Why should anyone have to--”

“Because I _want_ to,” he insisted. “Because you're worth it.”

Taking off her top, he ran his hands along the slope of her bared shoulders; rough palms that were like sandpaper against her buttery smooth skin. Yvona said, rendered into a dreamlike stupor at this boundary between pleasure and pain, utmost vulnerability and newfound hope, stared out the open entrance to the tent, at the stars and moon above, and the slumbering bard camp by the lake, the warmth of the man with his arms around her shielding her from the chilly night air.

“My dream has always been to one day play music...so that others might feel the way I do,” she said.

“With me, you don't have to play anything,” the man said. “Because I too know pain. I too know loneliness.”

“Redire...” Yvona whispered to the man, before at last turning over to allow her darkness to succumb to his own, while the night was still young.


End file.
